


Unchained Melody

by ghettoassenglishman



Category: Ghost (1990), Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Character Turned Into a Ghost, Don't be put off by the death - it will sort out in the end, Films, Fluff, Ghosts, Give it a go, Grief/Mourning, Happy Ending, Heavy Angst, Ian is Molly, M/M, Mickey is Sam, Mystery, They Love Eachother Very Much, pls
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2015-05-18
Packaged: 2018-03-31 01:09:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3958789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghettoassenglishman/pseuds/ghettoassenglishman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>- Based Off The Film Ghost (1990) With Patrick Swayze and Demi Moore -  </p><p>Mickey and Ian move to New York, working out their new lives, and freedom to be a couple. After Mickey gets killed during a mugging, his love for Ian enables him to stay on the Earth as a ghost, to work out his killer, but to also keep Ian safe (even if he doesn't believe he's still there).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Oh, My Love, My Darling

**Author's Note:**

> So I've been waiting to make this...so please tell me what you think????? 
> 
> You obviously know the song;) - Unchained Melody - The Righteous Brothers  
> I will try and batch up the next chapter as soon as possible!!

 

It had been seven years since Ian had broke it off with Mickey, spent almost three months going out of his mind trying to get over him, flushing his pills, trying to tell people that he didn't need to fixed because he _didn't._ It had been seven years since Ian ran to Mickey, just as he had like some romantic comedy bullshit, banging his fists against the door like some lunatic, pleading to see the only person he never really wanted to push away. It had been seven years since Mickey fell in the trap of love all over again, not immediately forgiving Ian but letting him sink back into his veins, blood running warmer than it had ever been. 

It took time, they both knew that, but it really started to feel like their lives were finally looking up. 

***

After barrels of stress, arguments, a little crying, sleeping on the couch, Ian had convinced Mickey to move to New York; apparently it was the one place in the world that Ian felt he could be something. To Mickey it was just another place where he could build memories with Ian. Both of them had decent jobs; Mickey surprised Ian with his in-depth knowledge of mathematics and ended up becoming an accountant, whilst Ian felt he wanted to create things, beautiful things, and that's how he ended up being a pottery maker, using his hands for other things beside hand-jobs. 

Together, they had forged enough money to buy an apartment – it was large, better than they had expected, but it needed a lot of work. Mickey had managed to bargain the seller for a reasonable price, giving them his trademark smirk that only Ian knew of. This day, they had finally struck gold and began working on the place, exploring its grounds. 

Chunks of plaster crashes to the floor as Mickey hits his sledgehammer into the rumbled wall, the air filling with white dust. Beams of light cut through the cracks, piercing the atmosphere like searchlights in a fog. Ian, Mickey and Craig – Mickey's colleague and close friend of the two – all stand beneath the newly formed hole in the wall, plaster billowing into the air. 

“Fuck, what a mess.” Ian groans, stood shirtless with a mask covering his mouth. Through the wall he can see more rubble, old furniture, _a lot_ of dust. It would do. 

Mickey nudges his arm, that isn't occupied by his sledgehammer, and runs a hand through his dust swept hair. “I fucking told you, Gallagher.” Craig snorts next to him, still not used to the couple, but in love with their witty, but yet unexpected, relationship. 

Ian flips him off, hitting his hammer into the wall once more. Mickey scoffs, arching his brow in a little confidence, until he's spurted into a coughing fit. Craig is laughing beside him, eyes trailing over Ian's exposed body, hoping that Mickey didn't catch out, even though he knew he knew. Mickey leans against his knees, coughing up some dust. “Jesus fucking Christ, I can't breathe.” 

“Use your mask, idiot.” Ian flicks the white elastic around Mickey's neck, grinning cockily. 

Mickey punches at his shoulder, reluctantly pulling his mask over his mouth, his cursing insult muffled underneath the plastic. He gives Craig a look, before all three of them raise their hammers towards the wall, they all hit it numerous times, timber and dust falling around them as they burrowed through the walls. With a tug and a loud yank, a huge section of the cracked walls crashes to the floor, a huge cloud of dust showering over them. 

Wafting away the dust, Ian looks up, astonished. “Holy shit, Mick, that's like eight feet up there.” 

Mickey and Craig follow Ian's line of eye-sight, taking in the wide range of space beyond the wall. Grunting a little, Mickey wipes his hands against his bare chest, pulling his mask down from around his face. “Yeah, and about eighty fucking years of dust.” 

“We have _all_ of this, Mick. All of it.” Ian's eyes widen, passionately preaching towards the other two, trying to disband Craig's odd look. “We could add a second floor and put our bedroom upstairs, y'know, that would leave so much space.” 

Mickey eyes him curiously. Ian always did this. “Why the fuck would we need more space?” 

“I don't know, _space._ Don't be so fucking stubborn.” Ian laughs, hitting his arm against Mickey's tenderly, unable to keep his eyes off him and his dusted, white chest that had definitely toned up over the last couple of years. 

The older boy flips him off, a grin tugging at his lips. “I still don't fucking get it.” 

Ian's not hurt, Mickey was always like this, it wouldn't be the same if he wasn't. Craig laughs as he looks towards Mickey, all of their bare chests covered in white power, as if they were strange, ghostly figures within a burning building. The tall, blonde man steps forward, interrupting Ian and Mickey's little moment when his hand clasps around his shoulder. “”Mickey, you need to lay off the coke man, getting a little too much.” 

Mickey looks down at his white body and they all laugh. Craig's was a little more nervous, but neither noticed through staring off towards each other. 

Suddenly, Ian smirks, dropping his hammer to the floor, pushing at Mickey's shoulder. “Turn around.” 

“What the fuck, man, why?” Mickey scowls, unsure of what Ian had planned. 

Ian sighs heavily, hair sprayed all over the place. Mickey doesn't want to say its cute, but it really is. “Just turn the fuck around, asshole.” 

Mickey obeys, pretending to grunt, facing Ian with an unimpressed glare. He can feel Craig watching them as Ian traces his finger along Mickey's chest, doodling a bow tie and an outline of a tuxedo jacket among the dust clamped to his chest. His lines are quick, accomplished, and subtly erotic. “Now you  _ actually  _ look like a true gentleman, look at that, huh.” Ian grins, cockily.

“Fuck off, man, what if I don't want to be a fucking gentleman?” Mickey scowls, shoving at Ian's chest playfully. 

Ian rolls his eyes, wafting his hair from side to side getting rid of dust. “ _ Lame”  _ He giggles, walking off into the exposed, found section they had come across, stepping through the hole they had created. Mickey throws some sort of insult under his breath as he and Craig follow the redhead inside. 

The dust is still clearing, but they all manage to see the spacious area that was filled with old furniture, planks of wood, bricks and all sorts of things that Mickey knew would take weeks to clear out. They all gasp, looking around, Mickey spots an old jar resting on a table, when he picks it up something rattles inside of it. A penny. “Fucking hell, who the fuck would put a penny in a fucking jar?” He scowls. 

Ian and Craig turn around, the redhead scrunches his brow, walking over with his lips curling into a smile. His hand wraps itself from the joint of Mickey's hip, tapping the top of the jar Mickey repeatedly demanded to shake. “You know, some people say it's a good omen. Good luck and all that shit.” 

“No, Gallagher,” Mickey turns in Ian's hold, jar in the gap between them, smirk on his lips. “It's for sappy shits, that's what it's for.” He shoves the jar into Ian's chest, giving him a limited time to actually hold it in his grasp. Ian knew what Mickey meant, really, and doesn't hesitate to give him loving glance, discarding Craig's devious smile behind them. 

“Holy shit.” Mickey runs a hand through the back of his messy hair, laugh bubbling at his lips. He finally takes in what they were going to be living in; a huge loft over four thousand square feet, banks of windows run east and west. It's perfect, Mickey never expected to have this; he didn't expect to have Ian, but here they are. Ian steps beside him, jar still in his hands, admiring the room. 

Sweetly, Ian comments as if he's in a daze, “It's fucking beautiful.” 

Craig laughs loudly, clapping his hands on the tops of each of the men’s shoulders, his buzz literally vibrating off of him. “You guys did fucking good, Jesus. I bet you could sell it tomorrow and double your money.” He offers, looking more towards Mickey than Ian on that one. 

“Sell it? Why the fuck would we do that, we just _bought_ it?” Ian asks, huffing out a pathetic laugh. 

Mickey snorts, shaking his head whilst looking at the ground. Ian was never subtle. Craig shrugs, hands laid against his hips. “I don't know, man. What I would fucking do for a place like this, I tell you.” 

Ian hums, letting Mickey slip his arm around his waist. The brunette, turns them towards Craig, pointing his finger playfully towards the blonde-haired man, with a smirk he comments, “Well you ain't fucking having it or I'll shove your dick down your fucking throat. 

Craig stops, stunned, eyes widening with what looked like fear. Until, Ian laughed loudly, as if it was normal, kissing Mickey roughly against the cheek. “You've been listening to 'Lana for too fucking long.” 

***

_**One week later...** _

“Would you stop fussing. I can't fucking do this with you being all nervous and shaky.” Ian moans, hands fumbling with Mickey's tie, their chests pressed together as he knitted his eyebrows in concentration, tongue stuck out between his teeth. 

Mickey bites his lip, frustrated and  _ yes  _ nervous. “I ain't fucking nervous,” he lies through his teeth, grinning a little when Ian curses to himself. “I just fucking hate these clients, they'll just fuck me over and expect me to do  _ all  _ the work. I ain't their fucking slave.” 

“Just show them you're knuckles, I'm sure you'll have less work to do then.” 

Ian scoots to the side, hands still on the tie, as Mickey goes to punch his shoulder. He's giggling like an idiot, and with all the years they had been together, Mickey would never get bored of hearing that sound. It was a wonderful sound. “I fucking hate you.” Mickey spits, softly. 

“Sure you do.” Ian rolls his eyes, pushing the knot of the tie up towards Mickey's collar. “Let me tell you a story, it'll make you feel better.” The redhead offers, flashing Mickey a smile, hands tightly holding onto the tie, dragging him a little closer. 

“Your stories are shit.” 

Ian frowns, pouting out his lip, making Mickey chuckle; breath tickling against Ian's face. “I don't give a shit, you're gonna listen.” Ian pushes his finger against Mickey's lips, clearing his throat. Clearly, he starts to speak, “A man and a woman are lying in bed when the woman's husband comes home,” Mickey knows where this is going, he's heard this story before. “Frightened, she tells the man he has to leave instantly or her husband would fuck him up. Really, he doesn't have time to chuck any clothes on, so he just goes butt-naked.” 

Mickey rolls his eyes, watching straight-faced, eyes caught to Ian's pink lips, contently listening to the story that Ian  _ always  _ told him when he needed relaxing. 

“It's raining outside and shit, so the man, running naked along the street, dick going every where, things just all over the place-” 

Cutting him off, Mickey shoves a little. “Fuck off with the details, I don't want to hear about some guys balls flapping about in the fucking wind.” 

Ian snorts, “Don't lie, you love that part.” He kisses the tip of Mickey's nose, giggling as the brunette scowled at the affectionate gesture he hated so much. Ian carries on, smugly, “He sees some joggers coming up to him, and one of them calls out, “Hey do you always go jogging naked?” and the man says “Yes always.” in his posh, American accent because he's obviously fucking rich and lives in a condo.” 

Mickey can't help but laugh at Ian's storytelling skills; they were a little over the top, but entertaining in every single sense. 

“And _then,_ the other jogger says, “And do you always wear a rubber?” The man looks down, embarrassed-” 

Mickey buts in again, “Because his dick was shrivelled up.” 

“ _No,_ stop fucking up the story, asshole.” Ian swats him lightly, biting his lip to try hide his smile. “And he replies, “Only when it's raining.” Then the redhead, as usual, bursts out laughing because he literally had a sense of humour of a five-year old. 

Mickey squelches a smile, tongue stuck to the left side of his cheek to hide that Ian was the most adorable fucker he had ever laid eyes on. Then again, he didn't really need to hide it that much these days. “How can you laugh at that shit?” He asks. 

Ian scoffs, letting go of Mickey's tie and running his hands over the other man's shoulders, fingers massaging into the tense muscle. “Just relax, okay? It's not the end of the fucking world if you lose this account. Worse shit has happened to you, you got shot in the ass remember?” 

“Yeah, and it's your fucking fault.” 

“Fuck off,” Ian tuts, drawing Mickey closer, their lips brushing together. “You've always got me.” He whispers, delicately, like he was scared for Mickey to hear. 

Mickey felt himself burn up, like every time Ian came out with something like that. He wasn't sure whether it was the fact that someone actually wanted to be with him, or the fact that it was  _Ian,_ but as much as he protested and grunted about it, he wanted to hear those words for the rest of his life. “I really fucking hope so.” 

***

Ian's angel statue ascends from the ground, the work men pulling at the tightened rope to lift it towards the open window of the loft. As it gets to the level, the two look at it helplessly, trying to reach out to grab it, the statue dangling outside the open doorway high above the street, fingers barely close to it. Ian suddenly walks through, placing down the boxes against the coffee table, he examines the situation, pushing the guys out of the way. “Jesus, where the fuck are you guys from, the New York City Ballet?” 

With a gusty manoeuvre, Ian leans out over the side-walk, dangerously hovering over the moving street below, and tries to grab hold of the ropes, his fingers a little closer but no where in reach of the thing. Suddenly, a pair of hands grab around his waist, roughly jolting him back in. Ian yelps, falling against the body behind him. 

“You thinking of fucking dying today, Gallagher?” Mickey whips his head around Ian's shoulder, grinning with a wink. 

Ian swerves himself around in Mickey's hold, his face unamused, hands punching lightly against the top of Mickey's chest. “You fucking dickbag, why the hell did you do that?” His small punches fade out, face curling up in a shy smile once he heard Mickey chuckle around him. 

“Couldn't have you falling, could I?” Mickey winks, acting cocky. 

Rolling his eyes, Ian hums a little, narrowing his eyes. “Whatever you're planning to do, don't even think about it, Milkovich.” He warns, knowing that devious smirk from a mile off. 

“Have some hope.” Mickey pretends to be offended, before he moves Ian to the side gently. Mickey nears to the open window, stepping between the work men, he jumps up, grabbing hold of the window tops melding, swinging out over the side-walk. 

“Jesus fucking Christ, Mickey!” He hears Ian yell, but discards the concern and pushes his feet off the ledge, and then into the angel statue, sending it swinging away and then back forward to the loft. Quickly, he jumps back, grabs hold of it and then brings it towards the window ledge. The work men applaud, laughing a little as they took over the grip on the statue. Ian is stunned, stood with his eyes wide and mouth a gape in concern. 

The redhead walks over, nose flaring, “Mickey what the fuck was that you could of di-”

Ian's interrupted by a familiar voice echoing through the loft, “Mickey? Ian? Anybody home?” Craig sings out, walking through the mess of boxes and furniture shoved to the side. 

Groaning into his hands, Ian whispers sharply, “What the fuck Mickey, why did you invite him?” It wasn't that he hated Craig, the guy was nice and looked after the two and kept Mickey in shape with the bills and accounts, but Ian wasn't a fan of the crude looks the other man gave him, or the fact he slightly made him feel uncomfortable. 

“I couldn't keep him the fuck away.” Mickey grits through his teeth, not in favor of the sudden uprising in Craig's presence recently; especially when all the guy did was check Ian out and try to be subtle about it. 

Craig nears to them, splitting their hold up, with a sleazy smile and his hair all swept up with gel. “Hi, Ian. Hey, Mickey. So, how's the big move?” He looks around, beaming at the upgrade in the place since they had found it. 

Before Ian could answer, a workman turns to him, “Where do you want this?” It's a ton of Mickey's belongings, pictures, a couple of old posters he insisted to keep, and a couple of hidden weapons that nobody had to know about. Ian points upstairs, “Just in the bedroom.” 

***

Later on that day, they find the loft empty of workmen. It was decorated, finally, for the first time. They hadn't really chosen colours, but Ian had insisted a little bit of pastel colours around, mixing with his pottery. The floor, a huge gymnasium-like expanse, is lacquered with polyurethane, furniture and boxes piled up against the walls. Dominating the space, with a kind of surreal presence, are a large number of Ian's sculptures and ceramics that Mickey pretended to hate. Craig stands and admires the place, still beaming at its variety. 

Ian pulls Mickey by the arm, turning him around to attack his lips, laughing into the passionate kiss. A million words locked between their lips. Mickey hums into the kiss, finally accepting the fact they had this place to themselves, they could have that sense of freedom that they never had back home. The loft was  _theirs_ and he wasn't going to lie and say he wasn't excited about the fact that he could walk around the place naked whenever he wanted, or the fact that Ian could fuck him at every inch of the place. 

“Holy shit, this place looks great. Really great.” Craig comments, trailing his fingers against the banister of the stairs. 

“It's pretty neat, huh.” Ian answers, proudly, turning Mickey so his back was against his chest, resting his chin against the top of the brunettes shoulder. “It's alright.” Mickey interjects, blandly, wincing with a hiss as Ian playfully bites at the skin of his shoulder. 

Mickey kisses the top of Ian's hands and lets go from the embrace, walking around the room until he sees his very much-missed couch. The same chair that Ian fucked him on, that he was raped on, that Ian had to watch turn to something evil. But, unlikely, it felt reassuring. Like they had brought home with them inside of leaving everything behind. 

Ian spots it, “No, Mick. You actually took that fucking thing?” He scowls towards the couch that Mickey's sprawled across, flickering the television set on in the process. 

“Of course I fucking did. It's comfortable, I love this shit heap.” Mickey shrugs, smacking his hand against the old, ratted cushion of the Milkovich couch. 

“But it doesn't go with anything.” Ian flaps his hands against his sides. The chair _did_ look hideous. 

Cockily, Mickey grins, turning his head towards the screen. “It goes with me.” 

Ian can't help but feel his insides twist, hungry for that mouth that Mickey displayed so well against his face. Jumping onto Mickey's feet, he huffs out exhaustedly, “You're right, it does.” 

 

***

The three of them are sprawled out against the floor, eating from cartons of Chinese food. The cat that, Ian had rescued from the trash, came waltzing round. Ian was persistent in naming him Dexter, but Mickey really didn't care at this point. He'd never been could with animals. 

Mickey recounts the story of how they first met, to Craig, not really minding being open that much anymore. It didn't seem as bad when you were with people who would actually listen instead of trying to kill you for liking it up the ass. “...So, this fuckwit came barging into my house like some fucking lunatic, thinking he was all ten men trying to get his boyfriends fucking gun back-” 

“He wasn't my boyfriend.” Ian tries, in his defence.

Mickey moves into the gap between Ian's legs, sipping from his beer, “What the fuck ever, Gallagher, you will still fucking him.” Craig's eyes nearly pop out of his head, but Mickey chooses to ignore it. “He had a goddamn fucking tyre iron, tapping me on the back like a fucking dick. I turn around and I see this scrawny fucker ready to fight, so I get up, we fought, ended up popping a hard-on, then we fucked.” 

Craig looks shocked, a little dazed, when Ian finishes Mickey's sentence. “And the rest is fucking history.” And it was, it was the past, and they were looking forward to leaving that shit behind. “Admit it though,” Ian whisks his head around Mickey's shoulder, locking his legs around Mickey, “You fucking liked me then, didn't you, right from the start?” 

“No.” Mickey answers, bluntly, causing Craig to scoff out loud. 

“Yes you did.” 

Mickey turns in the hold, wrestling Ian to the carpet. “You better shut up before I make you shut up, Red.” 

Ian takes to the challenge, adoringly looking up towards Mickey. “Make me, bitch.” 

 

***

The loft is filled with darkness, other than the small light coming from Ian's pottery table. The redhead is sat, legs crossed, shirtless and tucked into a pair of sweats, leaning over the circling table with clay formed on top of it. There's a small song playing from the Dukebox that Kevin had given them a couple of weeks back, a small beat as he ran his hands through the clay. 

The song stops as Mickey steps through, behind him, only in a pair of his boxers. Unchained Melody plays out from the box, as Ian's hand dips inside of the clay, the brown mixture running up his forearm. Mickey leans against the door frame, taking in the beauty of his boyfriend; the bed-head, the broad pale shoulders splattered with freckles, the flex of his muscles, the dip at the bottom of his ass. He tucks his hands under his armpits, his footsteps noticeable to Ian. “Gallagher, what the fuck are you doing?” 

Ian continues to run his hand in the clay, concentration plastered to his face. “I couldn't sleep.” Ian confesses, not turning around. This happened a lot; Ian's medication was normal, he was used to it, but still after seven years the side effects did not wear off. Making sculptures, pottery, it helped him relax, it helped him think through things. It was sweet, actually. 

“Why the fuck did you not wake me?” Mickey asks, stepping up towards the other man; it was something about the way Ian's fingers lightly touching the clay, moulding it. The way his tongue flickered out as he tried to keep it in shape. It did something to him. 

Ian sighs, pressing his finger inside of the wet clay. “For the same reason why I  _didn't_ wake you.” 

Mickey couldn't really disagree with that, instead he looks down to his watch. “Fuck me. It's two.” He rubs a hand against his face, whilst Ian nods, hands still running around the clay, pressing his fingers into the pot that's forming in front of him. Mickey watches the sensual movement of his fingers, moulding and forming the clay. He's not too forceful, but he's assured and gifted. Mickey never got tired of watching Ian do this. 

Slowly, and unconsciously, Mickey nears over to Ian, reaching for his shoulders he begins peppering kisses along the joints, up towards the side of his neck. The heat rises in his chest a little, as he speaks, “He was looking at you again, today.” He mumbles against Ian's skin, sitting himself down on a stool behind Ian. 

Hands still in movement, Ian's lips curl up. “Aw, are you jealous, Mick?” He turns his head to the side a little, catching Mickey's flushed cheeks. “Don't worry about him, he isn't looking at me. It's you he idolizes,  _and_ he must know by now that if he touches me you'd kill him.” Which was also true. “Plus, he's not my fucking type.” 

Mickey's lips ghost at the side of his neck, “Oh yeah, then who is?” 

“My over protective, thuggish boyfriend.” Ian laughs, pushing his whole arm inside of the pot to neaten out the bottom of the clay. “He's an idiot, really.” He adds, biting at his lip. Mickey slides his hands around the toned body against his chest, hands trailing over the bump of Ian's abs and over to the side of Ian's hip. 

Ian sighs as Mickey's lips make a path around his shoulder blades, up to the column of his neck. Mickey's lips are lightly wet, sweet with the tender kiss they pressed into Ian's skin. Mickey's chest it pressed against Ian's back, legs slotted around him, tightly. “You ain't wrong there.” The brunette mumbles, chuckling against the shine of Ian's skin. 

He trails his hands slowly down Ian's arms, tracing down towards his hands that move around the clay. With one touch, the clay falls into a crunch, tipping to the side. Ian pouts, trying to retrieve it. “Ah shit.” Mickey laughs through his teeth, arm looped infront of him and Ian. “Hope I didn't fuck up your master piece.” 

“I swear the God, Mick, if you weren't mine.” Ian flares, with a little giggle, pulling the clay make into a ball against the potter-turn table. “Here,” The redhead calls out, in a whisper, leaning further back into Mickey as he goes to grab for Mickey's hands. 

Mickey flinches, “What are you doing?” 

“You're helping.” Ian mutters, pulling at Mickey's hands and placing them against the turning clay. His fingers dig into it, the clay rolling against his palms. Ian places his own hand against Mickey's right, guiding him with the shape of the pot, he leans over and scoops water against their hands. “Just need to be a little wet,” 

Mickey snorts at the pun, letting Ian lead him in the motion of the board. He leans his chin against Ian's shoulder, arms whirled around Ian's waist and onto the turn-table. “And just-” Ian whispers, cupping the top of the clay, hearing Mickey make noises from behind him, “Let the clay slide between your fingers.” His voice is husky, something that always got Mickey rivalled with lust in a a matter of seconds. 

Their fingers seem to dance together, Mickey's hands running along the tendons of Ian's, scooping around his clay-covered fingers, kissing lightly each second at the side of Ian's face. They were so domestic sometimes Mickey didn't even recognise them; but this was them, this was their freedom, and fuck it, he might actually like it. 

They stay like that for some time; grinding, hands running along each-other, intertwining and slowly reaching out, gasps filling the air. 

After a moment, Ian can't help it, he turns in their sitting position, leaning his head into kiss Mickey's soft lips, groaning into the taste. His clay-covered fingers streaking Mickey's face, curving down his chest and over his shoulders. The redhead turns, pushing himself to straddle Mickey's lap. 

Before Ian knows it, Mickey's hoisting him up. It causing him to yelp into a moan, impressed by Mickey's strength to hold up all of his gangly limbs. Ian wraps his legs around Mickey's middle, mouth gasping against Mickey's, trying to taste every inch of his lips. Until, he's being laid down carefully in a pile of sheets still left from their last round, the scent of paint and varnish invading the air, but it doesn't matter. Mickey hovers over Ian, eyes dancing across the lit-skin from the moonlight, the pure beauty of Ian Gallagher. In wonder, his clay-covered hands roam over Ian's body in awe, trailing over the dips of his abs. 

“Mickey,” Ian gasps, helplessly. 

Mickey takes that as a cue, and trails a path of kisses down Ian's chest and towards the emerging bulge in Ian's sweats. Ian leans up on his elbows, gasping, watching as Mickey pulls down the waistband of his pants. The redheads hip rut upwards, as Mickey mouths at the red, coarse hairs as they're revealed. “Eager, Gallagher?” 

Ian drops back against the sheets once Mickey's mouth falls around him, the brunettes eyes falling closed like he's revelling in it, and his mouth waters enough to take him further; a perfect, tight heat making Ian groan out in a husk moan, voice sharp with pleasure. Ian's fingers fist in Mickey's dark-hair, threading his fingers through the strands, tangling them. Mickey gasps around him, tongue licking up the slick vein at the underside of Ian's cock. The redhead thrusts his hips a little, Mickey grounding them back down with his clay-covered hands, grinning around him. 

Ian's breath punches out of him at the sensation of the tip hitting at the back of his boyfriends throat, his hands clawing into Mickey's hair, and his moans are bolder, more sensual. Ian's thighs tense around Mickey, toes curling as they hitch at Mickey's ass, his climax nearing up. 

Mickey pulls off slightly, running his tongue over the slit, breathing heavily from his nose. Ian shoots his eyes open, taking in the sight; Mickey's shoulders hunched, tensed and flexing, dark hair mused and fluffy, focused on his dick as if it was a piece of pottery. 

That's when he feels it, Mickey's mouth nearly choking along Ian's orgasm, the wetness falling into Mickey's mouth, riding out his climax. The dim lights of the lanterns blurring around them, Mickey's head resting at the bottom of his chest, cheeks red with flush, lips plump. Ian pleads with a grip to his shoulders, pulling him up beside him, kissing at his shoulders, his biceps, his neck until he finally falls to his lips. Mickey falls into it. 

 

***

It's like the song was purposely playing over again, pulling Ian to make Mickey do stupid things in the middle of the night; but it was the first time he actually felt free, like they could do anything and no one could judge, or stop it, or think against it. 

Moonlight pours through the windows and shines off the polished floors, wads of packing paper swirling sensuously around their feet. It's dumb, it really is. But Mickey wasn't in the right state to stop it. Ian's hands trail down Mickey's back, slipping down the curve that dipped within his skin, down to the cushion of his ass. 

Mickey slowly draws his fingers down over Ian's face, feeling for his cheekbones, soft lips, curve of his jaw; relishing in the fact that it was  _all_ his. His hands slide under the waistband of Ian's sweats – just recently pulled back on after their last round – slowly moving over the round of Ian's perky ass. Ian's breathing slowly, Mickey wouldn't class it as a dance – but a sway – but his eyes stay trained on the swaying strand of hair before Ian's beaming face, illuminating against the soft light. 

Their stomachs touch and part and touch again, hands roaming to find a hold against the slow pace. Ian bites his lip, his form like moonlight – as he stokes his hands down Mickey's chest, fingers moving from his torso around to the curve of his hips. Mickey leans into Ian, nipping at the soft skin of his neck, they stop moving, Ian's eyes closing. 

***

Mickey and Ian are lying together silently, only their breathing echoing through the room. Ian gazes over to Mickey, noticing the way Mickey stared off, shoulders tensed up. 

“What's is it?” Ian asks, voice hoarse, filled with concern. 

Mickey feels himself knock out of a trance, turning his head towards the face against his chest. Running a smooth hand through Ian's hair he says, “There ain't nothing wrong.” 

Sighing, Ian says, “I can tell, Mick.” Because he could, he always could. Mickey would bite aimlessly at his lip, or gnaw into the side of his nails, eyes distancing off. Ian knew something was going on, it panicked him. 

“It ain't anything for you to worry your pretty head about, aright?” 

Then it clicks, Ian knows why and it hurts a little to think it. “You're worried aren't you? About us moving in together – I mean, I know its a big step, but it'll be fine, I swear.” Ian pleads, resting his chin against the pale skin of Mickey's chest. 

“No, No. It ain't fucking that.” Mickey shakes his head. 

Feeling a little relief, Ian nods, biting his bottom lip. “Then what? Did I fuck up? Is it the promotion or something?” Mickey's work had been hiring up lately, and they needed the money so Mickey had been working his ass off to get it. 

“I don't fucking know.” Mickey looks down towards his hand against Ian's hair, sighing in defeat. He was scared, really, scared things would turn for the worse. “I just don't want this _thing,_ this bubble to fucking burst.” Ian finally looks up through his lashes, confused and concerned. Mickey can see Ian's eyes glaze over, because he knew it too, “Whenever shit goes good something bad fucks it up and we might not get back from it.” 

Ian reaches up and cups his cheek, “You know what?” 

“What?” he asks. 

Swallowing, Ian's eyes glazed over, he whispers, “I love you, Mick. I really fucking love you.” 

Mickey smiles, heart warming at the words, he strokes a finger against Ian's cheek. “Ditto.” 

Suddenly the television blares into the room, Ian jumps up and grabs it from underneath the pillow turning the sound off. They both stick close, head against chest, watching the muted news play out; showing the remains of an airline disaster. Mickey stares at it, shocked. 

“Shit, that's another one.” He remarks, eyes glued to the set. 

Sceptically, Ian shakes his head, pulling himself further under the duvet. “Don't watch that stuff.” 

Mickey flickers up the sound, hearing the correspondent call out,  _“It is estimated that 34 people died in the crash, the second in less than two weeks.”_

Shuddering at the thought, Mickey kisses into Ian's hair, “I should cancel my L.A trip, this shit always happens in threes.” Plus, he didn't want to go anyway. Two weeks without Ian two weeks to much. 

“Threes?” Ian lifts his head in question, narrowing his eyes. “Bullshit, besides you lead a charmed life.” Ian scoffs, turning off the television set and chucking the remote onto the bed-side table. He nods for Mickey to lie down, facing him against the sheets. 

“Fuck off.” Mickey laughs, nudging Ian a little, closing his eyes with a yawn. “Amazing, huh?” 

“What?” Ian whispers, hand resting at the curve of Mickey's hip. 

Mickey snaps his fingers, his hand dropping to Ian's ear, fiddling with it. “Just like that. Blackout.” 

 

***

Mickey is sitting at his computer, typing away at his accounts, his address book with his address codes is sitting open beside him, he's oblivious, perplexed by the words happening on his screen. After pushing a series of buttons and getting the same response, he whacks the computer on the side. Craig, walking through the door, sees him, looking sheepishly.

“Just a fucking glitch, what you want?” Mickey asks, pushing his glasses back up the ridge of his nose. 

Shrugging, hands in his pockets, Craig tuts, “The Mark Greenberg and Larry White accounts, I can't get in. Your MAC code doesn't work.” 

Rummaging for his book, Mickey chucks his address book into Craig's chest, going back to his typing against the computer. “I fucking changed it, just bring it back, aright?” He nods towards the book, a warning stare. 

Craig salutes, mockingly. “Yes, sir!” 

***

Bright marquee lights sparkle overhead as Mickey and Ian exit the movies, walking out into the brisk night. “I fucking loved it.” Mickey lied, shooting Ian a cheeky grin. 

“Yeah, fucking course you did.” Ian snarls, gripping onto Mickey's arm as they headed down towards their loft, the pavement full of dark shadows and puddles. They walk in silence for a while, until Ian speaks up again, continuing, “Did I tell you what Marica said?”

“Yeah, six fucking times.” Mickey spat, laughing a little at Ian's displeased grunt. 

“Fuck off, it wasn't six.” Ian swats Mickey's chest, grin nearly breaking his face. “Don't be such a dick, this is important to me. I'll have two major pieces in the show. The New York Times reviews her gallery all the time, this could be huge, plus we really need the fucking money.” Ian explains, squeezing Mickey's arm. 

Mickey sighs, tucking his coat further around himself, leading Ian down the path, “Ian, the New York Times is some fucker, who's a frustrated critic with pimples on his ass who flunked out of art school. Who gives a shit about what they think?” 

“Eight million readers, that's who.” Ian shoots back, rolling his eyes, offended. 

“Oh, _come_ on, Ian.” Mickey tugs at his arm, pulling him along a little as they walked. “Your work is fucking amazing, that's a fact, right. It doesn't matter what those snobs think, all that matters is what I fucking think.” 

Ian arches his brow, “Is that so?” 

“Damn fucking straight.” Mickey answers with confidence. 

Despite that fact, Mickey could still tell that it mattered to Ian what everyone else thought. Mickey puts his arm around him, pulling him a little close like the day they sang Love Is A Battlefield. Ian nestles close to him, humming against the warmth, then suddenly the redhead stops and looks up, looking a little tired and trapped within thoughts. 

There's an unexpected seriousness in Ian's voice, “I want to marry you, Mick.” 

“You want to- wait, what?” Mickey stumbles on his words, struck speechless. Ian _wanted_ to marry him, what the fuck? 

Ian starts walking again, hoping that Mickey wasn't far away. “I've been thinking, like a lot, probably for the past couple of days. I want to do it. I want to fucking marry yo-” He latches his eyes onto Mickey's surprised gaze, a little confused, “What is it, what's that look for?” 

Mickey stares towards Ian, mouth stuttering, “It's just – It's just been so long since...I mean, you've never wanted to fucking talk about it.” Because Ian didn't. Neither of them brought up the concept of marriage since the shit-show of Mickey's. 

After a long pause, Ian looks distant, “Do you love me, Mick?” 

The brunette stops them both, pulling Ian around by his arm, “What the fuck do you think, Ian?” 

Ian nods, he knows Mickey does, he's shown it enough. Just to hear the words would be, well nice. “How come you never say it, then?” He asks, in wonder. 

Mickey scowls, pulling a face, “What the fuck are you talking about, I do?” 

“No you don't.” Ian plays back, still not forming eye contact with his boyfriend. He wanted to hear the words, just once, instead of their thing they already had. “You say “Ditto” that ain't the fucking same. Not to me.” 

Mickey shakes his head, gritting his teeth a little. “People say “I love you” all the fucking time, it doesn't mean shit.” he never really got the concept of it, the fact that people just threw it about like it was nothing at all. 

“Sometimes you need to hear it.” Ian almost whispers, and Mickey stops, and stares towards Ian. He pauses quietly, about to say something when a man's face emerges from the shadows behind them. Ian gasps a little, whilst Mickey spins around. 

Shit. He forgot his gun. 

The intense man is standing in the darkness, between two buildings. He stares at them for a moment and then steps onto the side-walk. Mickey and Ian stand motionless, both in knowledge that neither of them had a gun or any sort of weapon. The man hesitates and then begins walking the other way. Ian exhales a deep breath, before Mickey grips to his arm, continuing their walk briskly down the street. Suddenly, they hear footsteps coming after them. 

“Shit, Mick. What do we do?” Ian asks, hand tighter around Mickey's arm. 

Mickey cracks his knuckles, flexing his neck from side to side. “Let me fucking handle this.” He stops abruptly and turns around, a gun is then staring him in the face, clocking him under the chin. 

“Holy shit!” Ian yells. 

The man, the scruff, waves the gun before his face, nose flaring. “Your wallet, give me your fucking wallet.” 

Mickey waits a beat, sniggering a little. Ian yells something else but before they know it he mugger turns to Ian and whacks him across the face, sending him backwards. Mickey explodes, protective mode kicking it – no one touched Ian like that – he ploughs into the mugger with all his might. 

“Mickey, No!” Ian yells in protest, trying to pull Mickey back whilst his lip bled. 

There is a wild, all out brawl. Mickey fights like a mad man, kicking the guy in the groin, trying to pin his gun out of his hand. Suddenly, through Ian's shouts and the huffs and grunts from their fighting, the gun goes off, echoing down the empty street. Ian gasps, eyes growing wide, as the mugger takes off running. Mickey feels himself a little weaker, but charges after him. 

“Mickey!” Ian yells again, a shattering pain in his voice. 

Mickey chases the guy down the dark street, but the mugger is already a full block ahead and disappears into the shadows. Mickey gives up, trying to catch his breath, slowly he turns and begins walking back towards Ian. The he sees something, something bad, something – that can't be possible. 

“Ian!” He calls out, when Ian doesn't come after him, he starts running back over to him. He's just three feet away when suddenly he stops. An expression of horror shadowing over his face. 

Ian's drenched in blood,  _Mickey's_ blood, his eyes burning with tears as they streamed over his face, on verge of shock. He's panting, rocking back a forth, holding - “No.” Mickey mutters, as he notices what Ian's clutching tightly too in his lap. 

It's Mickey's dead body, covered in blood, eyes unmoving, chest still. 

Ian's wailing, shaking uncontrollably, hands roaming over Mickey's lifeless body, muttering towards Mickey's body. “Come on, Baby,come on.” He sways the body on his lap and Mickey can't interpret what's going on. His ghostly form, still solid to all appearances, stands by him. His eyes awash over in horror and confusion, he can't move.

Then the full impact of the situation dawns in his eyes. 

Mickey lets out a blood-curdling scream. “NO!” He runs his hand through his hair, leaning down towards Ian, trying to touch him but his hand goes all the way through. “Ian?” He calls out, trying to touch him so desperately. “Ian. It's me. It'-” 

“I love you, Mickey. Please don't leave me, Please don't leave.” Ian pleads, voice broken to pieces, shattering at each word. 

Mickey reaches out to grab against his lifeless form, watching as the blood poured out from the shot wound to his heart. His hands make a strange sound, passing right through the layer of skin. Ian can't see him, he's crying alone, crying out for help in the darkness. It is terrifying. For once in his life Mickey is terrified. 

“This can't be fucking happening. It's not fucking happening.” He mutters to himself, standing up. 

He reaches out to Ian, trying to thread a hand in his hair, but it does the same. People coming running down the street, the sound of sirens in the distance. “HELP ME!” he screams towards them, but they don't hear, they run over to Ian, trying to get to Mickey's body resting in his lap lifeless. 

Mickey watches helplessly as they reach his body. Ian looks up and begins screaming hysterically, one of the men grabs him, trying to calm him but Ian won't stop. Another holds onto Mickey's wrist, feeling for a pulse, Mickey watches in horror. There is no sign of life. 

The first man drags Ian back, as his friend stoops down and begins some form of cardio-pulmonary resuscitation, but there's no response. Mickey bends down, trying to desperately help, but its a futile gesture. He can't breathe. How was this happening? He needs to touch Ian, he  _needed_ too, but he can't. 

“Fucking help me!” He cries out again, wanting to wake up in Ian's arms and feel that light skin all over again, look up into those grin eyes and feel that grin pressed against him. “Fucking do it!” 

The man bangs against his chest, blood gushing from the wound. Ian recoils, screaming out hysterical, curling up against the ground. 


	2. I've Hungered For Your Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian is grieving and Mickey is trying to show his presence.
> 
> The next chapter will most likely be at the weekend:)

Mickey shoots up in bed, panting. It's dark, nothing but the beeping light from the television set. Mickey stares around the loft in confusion, feeling a little sick and little weak. With a lurch he flicks on the night light, shedding a dim atmosphere around the room. Mickey hears breathing, laboured gasps, he turns to the side to see Ian sleeping beside him, his head buried beneath a pillow.

Mickey seems stunned; it was just a dream. A stupid fucking _dream._ “Ian?” He calls out, shaking the body next to him. He can feel hot tears against his face, fear still riddled in his body. “Hey, Ian.” He shakes the lump again, desperate this time. 

Ian stirs, “Mick, what the fuck is going on?”

“Ian!” Mickey yells, relieved to hear his voice that he could hardly breathe.

“Mick..” He hears Ian's voice croak, as the redhead tried to sit up. “What is it?” He asks, again, voice sounding a little off. Mickey goes to reach for him, hand resting at the top of Ian's pale arm, when he suddenly turns, his face transformed into a skeleton, no eyes, no skin, nothing.

It speaks, mocking him. “What is it,  _Mick?”_

Mickey bolts upright, screaming, sweat heaving off his body. It was a scream so consumed by terror Mickey's not sure whether it will ever stop.

The again, Mickey finds himself asleep in bed, a different time, this time. He's thrashing against his pillow, moaning out in a cry of fear. Suddenly, a hand reaches out and touches his shoulder, shoving it a little. Mickey jumps straight up against the sheets, kicking wildly at the bed. He immediately reaches out for Ian, his first instinct, trying to ignore the fact that the walls seemed to be closing in on him.

Ian is sitting next to him, hand hesitating to touch at his skin, afraid. Mickey can't look at him, he wants to – god he fucking wanted to – but he didn't know what was real and what wasn't anymore. He stares him down, breathing heavily, not trusting his own senses, hands clutching to the wall.

“What the fuck is happening?!” Mickey shouts, Ian remains unaffected.

Unexpectedly, a brilliant white light shoots into the room as a host of glowing forms, radiating an intense inner light, floated before the bed. A blinding tunnel spirals in an infinite vortex behind him, just as it did when he tried to touch Ian. Mickey is both in awe and confusion, the light mildly enchanting him, drawing him in. The entire room begins to disappear in the light – was this death?

Ian lets out a blood-curdling scream, eyes shedding tears, red swelling up in hurt. Rocking back and forth, Ian cries out, “Don't leave me. I need you, Mick. I need you.”

Just as Mickey turns to the sobs, ready to bring Ian to his chest, pull him tighter and never let go, the whole scene changes. Ian is back on the street, blood swarming over his clothes. Mickey darts his head around, taking in the fact that he too was still there,  _but_ he was still bathing in the soothing light – was it heaven? Did Mickey go to heaven? Frightened, he calls out to Ian, the only person that made him feel safe. 

“Ian!” He screams, not yet leaving the light. Ian doesn't turn, or blink an eye, he sits with the men trying to revive Mickey, but attempts were failing. Mickey shouts again, tears brimming his eyes when he notices that this could be it. This. “Ian!”

There is no response, Ian rocks against his heels, crying endlessly into Mickey's lifeless body. Mickey feels his legs wanting to buckle, his heart wanting to stop – but it seemed that all didn't matter any more. He feels trouble, like he's torn between the light and Ian. But he'd never choose anything over, that was the deal. Ian was everything; his life, his soul, the only person that could make him better. Painfully, he turns from the light and walks towards Ian slowly.

He shatters. He's gone. Ian's alone.

At an instant, the light behind him disappears with the sound of a pneumatic door closing. There is a sense of finality as the tunnel evaporates into the void, leaving nothing but a shadow and a distant burn in Mickey's eyes. Mickey's left on the dark pavement, in fear of approaching Ian and his own dead body. Then he hears Ian's gasps are shallow, clogged, as if he could breathe and Mickey doesn't hesitate to run over. Just as he did, an ambulance rounds the corner.

***

Mickey can't breathe. Really, he can't. Ironic really; because he was already dead, or dying.

The swirls of light speed toward the ambulance as car headlights and street-lamps merge ina wild dizzying rush, the wheels of the ambulance squealing at each turn. The siren drains out Ian's cries, Mickey's yells, the constant beeping of the dead heart monitor.

Mickey's hopeless body us lying in the back of the ambulance as a paramedic applies electrical paddles to his chest, in an effort to revive him. Mickey feels his heart racing, dropping to his stomach, and he's only hoping that the energy he still had would absorb into his physical body. After a moment, he looks up at Ian, her eyes motionless, panting, tears constantly falling as his hands shook against Mickey's limp fingers. “Please don't leave, Please don't leave.” Ian whispers into his hand, voice barely even audible.

The paramedics stop, pushing back the paddles. Mickey can tell by their expressions that it's hopeless. Ian caught on too. In unison, they both shout towards the paramedics. “Don't fucking stop!” Of course, they only hear Ian, but the redhead is breaking down at each word Mickey's unsure they even heard him at all.

It hurts; it hurts more than the past. Ian's face was crumpled, body slumped, face burnt with tears. Mickey hated seeing him like that, at all, and it was all of his fault. Ian was finally happy and the bubble had been burst – popped deadly.

“I'm not fucking dead!” Mickey shouts into the face of the paramedic, trying to wave his hand before her. Nothing worked – he was hopeless, just like his physical body. Everything was shutting down and he wanted nothing more to touch Ian, feel him, just tell him he wasn't fucking leaving.

Ian, kneeling slightly over his body, grabs him and begins to heave, back hunching in a shake, as his hand clutched into Mickey's limp, dead palm.

***

Mickey really fucked hated hospitals; ever since he had the fright of his life with Ian laid against the hospital bed, hooked up to a drip, he had never set foot in one till now. And still, he's not sure how he was doing it, how he was still here but not really.

He watches as a doctor starts to comfort Ian, failing through the redheads aggressive cries; nearly punching the guy for touching him, demanding that he saw Mickey's body, screaming out that he couldn't be dead. Mickey only wished that Ian could see him, feel him, know that he _was_ still there.

The doctor, clutches to his clipboard, accompanying him as Ian was led through a pair of swinging doors into a separate waiting area. Ian is still screaming, still sobbing uncontrollably, glancing back at the white doors that they had led Mickey's body through. Mickey closes his eyes, trying to forget that it happened, wishing that Ian didn't have to be like this. That none of this had to be like this.

Two cops and two detectives follow them in, all trying to calm him down but Ian wouldn't take it.

“Leave him the _fuck_ alone.” He tries to bite out, remembering that they couldn't hear him. He can't leave Ian, he really can't, but as he begins to follow he knows he can't just leave his body. There still might be a chance that he could slip back inside, jump up and surprise everyone, let Ian know that it was all a fluke and that everything would be okay.

He turns back, just as his corpse, covered in green sheet resembling a body bag, is wheeled through the corridor and parked alongside the wall. They make sure that its out of Ian's sight, covering him from head to toe, pushing the bed in the corner. “Is that all I am? A fucking dead dummy left outside on a fucking corridor. Have some fucking respect!” Mickey yells, wiping his eyes frantically.

As he sits down stunned, he feels inconsolable towards his body beside him.

How could he let this happen?

A wrinkled old man approaches him, joining him against the bench he's slumped against. He begins to talk, “So, what happened to you, son?”

“What?” Mickey spits, amazed but startled how the guy could hear him. What was this? Was he back, could he go back into the waiting room and just grab Ian and run home?

The old guy nods, tutting a little, hands slapping against his thighs. “You're new, huh?” He asks, checking Mickey over in a double take. Nodding to himself, he tilts his head towards Mickey – who still felt speechless. “I can tell.”

“Are you fucking talking to _me?”_ Mickey barks, still confused at why some old prick could see him, talk to him, hear him, but Ian couldn't. What made this guy so special?

“Relax,” The guy mutters, resting a soothing hand against Mickey's knee to be shoved off. “It ain't like before, you know. It's a whole new ball-a-wax.” Mickey knows what he's referring to; death, the fact he couldn't taste fresh air, that he could touch the only person he loved because he was _dead._

Shaking his head, Mickey flips, “Who the fuck are you? Are you dead too?”

The man laughs, half-heartedly, pointing towards a ward across the way. “I'm waiting for my wife, she's in 4C. Cardiac wing, she's fighting it.” Mickey could see the flicker of sadness, the ever-going hurt in the man’s eyes, and he wonders whether he could wait for Ian too.

“How the fuc-” Mickey starts before he's cut short when the man sticks his head through the green sheet covering his body, his head disappearing completely into the sheet. Terrified, Mickey shouts a little loudly. Not that anyone could hear him. “What the fuck?”

Ignoring Mickey's yell, the man comes back out, nodding as he continued, eyes filled with solidarity. “Shot, huh?” He asks, sitting back down against the bench. “That'll do it every time. Seen it more times to count, poor basturd. Well, get used to it. You could be here a long time.”

Mickey wonders whether he could punch someone when he was dead, whether it was okay to deck an old guy that looked as fragile as a broken window. The man leans further in, as if it was a secret, mouth terribly close. “I'll tell you a secret. Doors ain't as bad as you think, zip-zap. They ain't nothing at all, you'll see, you'll catch on.”

“Doors, what the fuck are you going on about?”

Abruptly, there is aloud commotion from the side of them, both turning their gazes, they see physicians operating furiously on an middle-aged man, lying on the table beside them. Despite the probability of high-state intelligence, Mickey knows they fucked up.

“He ain't going to make it,” The old man comments, nodding towards the room.

Mickey rolls his eyes, rapidly glancing back towards the waiting room for Ian to walk out. Mumbling under his breath, he snarls, “No fucking shit, Sherlock.”

Unaffected, the old man continues, “I've seen it a million times, he's a goner. See?” They both watch as the doctors fail to revive him, rushing helplessly around the operating table. “Here they come.” The same bright light that Mickey had seen earlier eloped through the room. “Lucky fucker, could have been the other ones. You never know.”

Mickey had no idea what he's referring to, and becomes beyond confused when the entire room fills with a strange preternatural light. He freezes. It's the same amorphous form he saw right after he had died, they were floating down through the ceiling, reaching for the body on the operating table. Emitting a powerful light, it intensified.

“Hurry, we're losing him.” Mickey hears from one doctor, the whole thing becoming intense. He feels sick, he will hurl, he wants Ian's arms wrapped around him, keeping him close.

The old man claps his hands together, as if he was happy, “What'd did I fucking tell you? Bingo!” He yells as the glowing form takes hold of the patients spirit, helping to extract it from his body. His physical form changes instantly from a solid object into a ethereal substance. Mickey gasps, watching in a mixture of horror and glee as they light took over. He watches in amazement as the strange beings carry the spirit upward, evaporating through the ceiling.

“He's gone.” They hear a saddened voice, the doctors all ducking their heads in shame, beginning to pull the sheet over the man's body. Mickey only feels worse; knowing that they did that with his body, that they peeled over the sheet before Ian had the chance to say goodbye.

The light from the room grows dull, and Mickey feels himself sinking all over again. “Who the fuck are you? What's happening to me-” He jolts around to ask the old man, who appears to have gone, into dust, like a flash. An orderly approaches Mickey's body, shaking his head as he began to take it towards the elevator. Mickey jolts up, “No! Where the fuck are you taking me?”

He stands, reluctantly, infront of the stretcher. Not expecting of the thing to roll right through him, the doctor too. The penetration of his physical space is destroyed, as the orderly intersects with his. He feels paralysed, weak, in need to just bawl up. It was a stunning moment of extraordinary strangeness as he witnessed the atoms and molecules of the orderly passing through his, Like a glimpse of ultimate chaos, the universe within in.

Mickey feels he will hurl.

Then, in a flash, the orderly had passed through, but Mickey feels himself shake, his whole body turning hot with fever. He stares up tot he ceiling, the whole place becoming blurred. “Wait, what the fuck-” As the lights and acoustical tiles begin to blur, fading away, the hallway grows dark, eyes shadowing over as he falls to the ground in a blackout.

***

Mickey flutters his eyes open, the images of his surroundings suddenly coming into focus from the emitting blanket of darkness. He's laid on grass, trees above him, he turns his head noticing a group of people all dressed in black, some crying, some strong-faced. That's when he realises. It's his funeral.

“ _I_ have a fucking funeral?” He mutters to himself, a little shocked. It wasn't like many people would be sorry for his death, but it sure looked like a few made it. He feels like he's floating around, taking in all the faces. Mandy and Iggy are there,clutching to each other at the side of the casket, stood next to the Gallagher's, who all looked surprisingly upset. It all seemed strangely odd and disjointed, time seemed unfixed, malleable.

Mickey's jolted when the minister, who's standing by the grave, starts reciting, “As we say farewell to our friend, Mickey, we are reminded of his strong will, fight, dedication to look out for others-” Mickey scans the group of mourners, trying to locate Ian, instead he spots a couple of people from the office. The minister still carries on, “All that we treasure, our friends, our loved ones, our body, our mind, are but on loan to us. We must surrender them all. We are all travellers on the same road which leads to the same end.”

It hits him, right at home, shocking him at the truth of the words. He looks over to the casket, shaking his head in disbelief. “I'm not fucking dead.” He recalls to himself, before his eyes catch onto something else. He notices a woman, dressed in a fancy print dress, comforting one of the mourners. The woman looks up at him, smiles, and waves, as if she could actually see Mickey. In surprise, brow frowning, he looks behind him but no one is there.

When he turns back, the woman is walking away. “Ay, lady, get the fuck back here!” He shouts, but as she starts to begin to look normal, the image shatters when she approaches a gravestone and passes right through it. “Holy shit.” Mickey whispers, still trying to wrap his head around everything.

“...As our loved one enters eternal life, let is remember that love, too, is eternal, that although we will miss him, our love will light the void and dispel the darkness..” The minister reads out, looking inconsolably towards Ian.

Shit. Ian. Mickey rushes forward, latching his eyes onto the slumped figure. Ian's sat, shaking, against a black chair, his hands clutching tightly to the hem of his suit jacket. His face is red raw, tear marks painting against his skin, his eyes bloodshot – Mickey could tell he hadn't had any sleep. “Ian.” He speaks, voice hushed. Then he notices the bandages around Ian's wrists, dotted with blood within a certain area.

“Shit, Ian, no.” Mickey stutters, helplessly trying to grab onto the redheads wrists but his heads go straight through. He wipes the tears from his cheeks, and lets out a shuddering breath. “No, fucking no. Ian, I'm here. I'm fucking here.” He speaks towards Ian, who can't see him, he pleads and pleads but he gets no response.

A hand falls at Ian's shoulder, squeezing tentatively against the muscle. Mickey directs his gaze to the owner of the hand; It's Craig. As much as he hated the idea, he was glad that Ian had Craig there; sure, he had his family, but none of them lived up in New York. Ian gives him his hand, eyes never leaving the view of the casket.

Mickey reaches forward, tries to hold onto Ian's hand, but it failed again. He had taken those touches for granted when he could do it, he'd shoo Ian away if he had the chance too, and now he wanted nothing more to _feel_ Ian's hand in his.

Even when the minister carries on, he can't take his eyes off Ian. “...and into Your hands we commend his spirit. May he rest in peace. In the name of the father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Amen.” Everyone around him preforms the religious gesture. Mickey watches as Ian tries to join in, his wrist clear as day among the grey-lit atmosphere.

The casket is lowered into the ground, jolting Mickey into mere shock. Through the crowd, Ian steps up and approaches the grave, standing unsteady and shaking against his tall, lean legs. Mickey rushes out to grab him, but again his hand goes straight through. Ian stumbles a little, before Craig steps in and takes his elbow, pulling him up. A shovel is placed into Ian's hands, he chokes on his sobs and nearly falls to the ground, Mickey feels himself break, his body shattering to a million pieces, wishing that Ian didn't have to feel like this.

“Ian,” Mickey tries to say, hoping that somehow Ian could hear him. He steps closer, biting his lip before resting his lips at Ian's ear. “Ian, it's okay.” He whispers, shooting back when Ian stops suddenly, turning to the side in wonder for a second, before regaining a firm grip against the shovel. Did he hear him? Mickey wasn't so sure.

With great emotional effort, literally draining Ian, he lifts a shovelful of dirt and tosses it onto the casket, it lands with a reverberating finality. Mickey shudders, his bones feeling weak once he realises that that was it. His body was gone. Ian falls into Craig's chest, sobbing into the fabric of his shirt, his legs buckle and he falls to the ground. Mickey, again, falls to his knees, hoping that from some magical effect he could for once touch Ian, just once. A loud boom of voices rush over, helping Ian up. Lip grips at his shoulders and pulls him against his chest, letting Ian sob against his shoulder.

“It's okay, Ian. It's alright.” He gestures for them to leave, to move on. Mickey panics, not wanting them to just forget him like that. That he was still there and there _had_ to be a reason, just like the old guy had a reason to wait for his wife.

Just as the group moved to walk, Ian pulls out of his brothers grip and places a kiss against the top of the headstone. Mickey stands right next to him, eyes watering over the content, tender kiss that he knew Ian was uses as a goodbye. “I love you.” Ian whispers, hand clutches to the stone. “Always have and always will, but I fucking hate you for leaving.”

Mickey had always hated goodbyes; but he knew this wasn't the end.

***

For the moment, Mickey finds himself desperately alone. Down the hill, people were getting back into their cars, Mickey sees Fiona crushing Ian with a hug, letting Mandy take him home in her black-car. He's glad Ian's got people to look out for him, he'd hate himself if he was alone. Just as the place finally clears, Mickey finds himself standing there, staring down at his casket, grieving his own death.

“You fucking son-of-a-bitch.” Mickey utters towards his own dead body, wiping underneath his nose. “You fucking left him, _him,_ the only person who would ever love you.” He shudders into a moan, a cry, whatever his face was deciding to do. His body a compulsive shake as he tried to reserve the pain inside of him. This had been the first time, since his death, that he finally realised that it was real.

After a moment, he turns away, separating himself from his body, silently saying goodbye to life as a whole, saying farewell to himself. Then he runs; runs as fast as his legs could take him, following the car that Ian was sat in.

***

Mickey could see Ian curled up against the couch, cuddling next to Mandy. See, Mickey didn't only feel guilty for leaving Ian, but for leaving his sister too. They both needed him, no matter what, and he failed them. He knew it wasn't his fault, he didn't expect the mugger to pull out a gun and actually fire it; but in his heart, he knew he should have been more careful.

There's people wandering around in the after party, all chattering like Mickey was still there. He never got these things, these _parties_ after funerals. They never made any sense. He stands in the corner, watching as the world went by without him, how Ian and Mandy curled into eachother, trying to clear out the pain.

“Ah shit, sorry.” Mickey hears a voice, and feels a brush against his shoulder. “You better fuc-” he turns to the source of the force, and notices that it's his brother. His very confused and oblivious brother. Iggy stood in shock, mouth a gape, looking straight at Mickey but clearly he couldn't see him. His face painted whiter than a ghost, but he shook his head and went back to the party.

***

Raw clay spins on the potter's wheel, hypnotically, sensuously, Ian's hands harshly pressing into the clay as his face continued to screw up and relax in a cycle. Ian's wet hands press in, shaping it, moulding it, his grunts getting more persistent and loud, as the bowl he wanted to make started to appear. Mickey watches from his seat against the floor, back pressed on the door frame, knees pressed to his chest, rocking aimlessly.

Ian gets distracted for a moment, looking away from the bowl he's forming. Suddenly, in a burst, it bends and distorts, ruining its shape. Angry, and hopeless, Ian digs his fingers into it, punching at the clay, trying to pull it apart, tears running down his eyes as he continued to curse heavily. The bowl disintegrates as Ian fails to move at all, pressing his head into his clay-covered hands, the brown stiff mixture rubbing into his hair.

Dexter jumps on the bench beside him, jolting with the aggressive slap of Ian's hands against the stiff mixture. Ian stares sadly around the room, hands flopping against the clay as if they held no purpose, as if he couldn't make anything no more, his eyes burn from crying and finds himself talking, to the air, believing in hope that Mickey could hear him.

“Fuck, Mick.” Ian whispers, looking around the room.

Mickey's head springs up from his hands, only just blocking out Ian's burst, he feels a hope that Ian might actually feel him there; that somehow he knows he's still watching over him. “Ian,”

“I, er, picked up those pancakes you love from the diner this morning,” Ian laughs wetly, hands playing with the clay between his fingers, his lip quivering. “I don't know why, but, shit, Mr. Reynolds said to tell you hello, he didn't fucking know, he didn't-” Ian prepares himself, trying to find some sort of air. “I broke down, fucking- It's just, I want you so badly that my bones shake so much, that they feel like they might break, and – and -” Ian's head falls into his hands, muffled sobs echoing through the loft.

Mickey walks over, slowly, feeling himself tear up at the sight of Ian grieving, and sight of Ian hurting. He always hated that image. Desperately, he reaches out for contact, trying to touch at Ian's cheek before he hesitates, pulling it back. He knew now that it wouldn't work.

Ian steps up, before Mickey, his arm curling around his chest. “I think about you all the fucking time, you know. It's- it's like you're still here, like I can _feel_ you, Mick.” Ian knows he must sound crazy, that he can't really be talking to Mickey, that it was just air.

Mickey is more hopeful, stepping closer to Ian, he bites his lip, “I'm here, Ian, I'm fucking here.”

Unexpectedly, as if hearing Mickey's voice, the cat begins to hiss, bearing its teeth in Mickey's direction. Ian spins around, watching as Dexter scanned the room. Without prompt, the fluff ball jumps from the bench, just having held eye contact with Mickey, with a screech he takes off running up towards the bedroom. Ian stands in pure shock, as Mickey recoils.

“Dex, what's wrong?” Ian shouts up the block of stairs, before shaking his head. “What the fuck.” The cat is nowhere to be seen. All of a sudden, Ian freezes in his spot, standing right beside Mickey. The brunette is unsure how to react, because it seemed like Ian was feeling something, almost as though she sensed his presence.

In a whisper, Ian calls out, “Mickey?”

He holds very still, waiting for something he's not sure would ever happen. Mickey watches breathlessly, feeling his heart contract and recoil, wanting Ian to know the truth, wanting him to feel him. Then quietly, hopefully, he reaches out, trying to press his fingers through Ian's clay-covered hair. It's a useless gesture, his hand goes straight through, irritating him. In a moment of great poignancy, Ian shakes his head and walks straight through Mickey, weakening the brunette slightly.

That's when Mickey's left alone. Again. Just as Ian was.

***

Mickey stands in the corner of the large, walk-in closet that Ian had insisted they had the first time they saw the place. It was neutral, and useful apparently, but Ian was always a sucker for wide open spaces, or anything that looked a little advanced. He watches as Ian goes through his belongings; boxes, scattered shoes, all in which fill up the box of his life possessions.

Ian reaches for a shirt, Mickey tries to cut through, “No, Ian, not that one. It's my fucking favorite.” It's the lousy tank that he had worn the day Ian had left for the army; obviously, Ian wouldn't have really noticed that and resulted in chucking the old thing into the box. Then he reaches on a shelf, pulling down the brown-coloured sweater that Mickey had worn the day he beat the shit out of him, the day he pushed Ian away before the sham of a wedding.

Ian stops breathing for a couple of seconds, holding the sweater tenderly and ends up pressing it up to his cheek, taking in its scent and humming at the smell of Mickey still lingering in its fibres. “Fucking sap,” Mickey whispers with sad, tracing Ian's steps as the younger boy placed the jumper against their bed.

Then, in a surprising outburst, Ian cries out in a wail, beginning to flail at the shelves, pulling everything and anything from them, shattering glasses, ripping shirts of his own, trying to rid of everything he could see. Mickey reaches out to stop him, hand going to straight through. “Fuck, Ian, fucking stop!”

Suddenly, Craig comes bursting through the door, taking Ian's still-bandaged wrists, and sitting him against the bed. Ian's a sobbing mess, clenching his eyes in pain. Mickey follows, sitting at the other side of Craig, “Fucking say something useful, fucking help him you prick.” He repeats, over and over.

Stroking Ian's hair, Craig whispers, “It's hard, It's very hard.”

“What the _fuck,”_ Mickey wants to shove Craig, sarcastically he scowls, “Oh good, fucking really good. You're so useless sometimes.”

***

Ian and Craig are standing over the kitchen table, in silence they fold Mickey's shirts and jackets and place them into brown, cardboard boxes. Mickey hates it, he wants them to stop, he doesn't want his stuff being removed from Ian's life, _he_ didn't want to be removed from Ian's life.

As Ian lifts up Mickey's black jacket, something falls from the side pocket. Ian shakes as he bends to grab it; it's a small black leather address book, filled with all of Mickey's accounts. Even Mickey rushes to grab it as Ian struggles to stand steady whilst picking it up. “Shit, it's Mickey's address book.” Ian gasps, moving it around in his palm.

Mickey glances between the two, as Ian skims through it for the moment – but Mickey could see his lip quiver, the way memories just flashed over his mind at the sight of Mickey's notes and handwriting. He chucks the old book back into the small box, that Ian was keeping for himself, named: _Mickey's things – For the bad times._ And Mickey knew what that label meant, and he was frightened that Ian would be alone when those times crept up.

As they continue packing, Ian finds the old jar that Mickey had picked up the first day they found the place. “Shit.” Ian lets out a weak laugh, lifting the jar up to the light. It's marked, in Mickey's handwriting: _For sappy shits._ And Ian can't help but giggle, with a tinge of hurt. Mickey feels himself smile, wishing they could go back to that time. 

“Holy shit, we still have that.” Mickey talks to himself, following Ian upstairs, as the redhead placed the jar at the side of their bed, fingers brushing absently at the seam of the jar. Ian smiles to himself, closing his eyes as he took a deep breath and walked back down and over to the table.

Craig discovers some old ticket stubs in another of Mickey's jackets, examining them he asks, “Sox game, _really,_ should I toss 'em?” He asks, hovering them over the bin.

Ian rushes over, gripping the stubs from Craig's hand and rubbing them between his own. “No!” He yells, finally placing them within the box he decided to keep. It was the only memories he had left of Mickey, and Mickey remembers that game, vividly.

Mickey groans,“Ian, we fucking hated that game, you went home sick off that hot-dog, remember? Why would you want that shit?” Mickey spits, remembering the tortuous day that left Ian being sick in bed for days. In a way, he missed that shit.

Craig picks up a couple of Snickers wrappers, scowling towards them. Ian snatches the wrappers from his hands, clutching them carefully, and with a sigh he places them in the box too. Mickey frowns, wanting to slap Ian for _actually_ putting them into the box. Craig sighs, pointing towards the possessions, “You really want to keep some lousy wrappers?”

“Craig is right, what the fuck are you doing, Ian?” Mickey nods in agreement, looking towards Ian for answers he's not sure he wanted, or needed. Ian just stares for a moment, speechless, eyes glazing over in the thought of Mickey.

Looking towards Craig, Ian takes a breath, “I just, I miss him.”

Mickey feels his form weaken, his body going a little weak. He was dead, sure he was, but he felt like this hurt more; that seeing Ian like this was killing him slowly.

Craig steps over, taking Ian's hands between his, tilting his head to catch Ian's eyes, “We all do.” Ian falls forward, burying his head into Craig's shoulder, shaking in a sob, whilst the blonde-haired man stroked a hand through his hair.

Mickey only wished that he could do that. Just to touch Ian.

***

Craig makes his way to the door, boxes piled in his hands. Suddenly, Ian yells out, running through Mickey and over to the door, “Wait. Wait. No, not that one.” The redhead hurries over and pulls the box with Mickey's possessions in from the stack in Craig's arms.

“Oh, shit. I'm sorry, I have no clue how that got there.” Craig laughs nervously, halting at the door. Mickey eyes him suspicious, still a little freaked at how Craig acted around Ian, like some pissy fifteen year old girl. Craig turns from the door, towards Ian. “Hey, Ian, why don't you come?”

Ian rubs a hand at the back of his neck, shaking his head. “Nah, I-”

“It's like summer outside.” Craig tries to persuade him, nodding his head towards the light shedding through the blinds by the door. Mickey stands at Ian's side, watching the little interaction, and just like before – he wanted Ian to feel his presence.

Ian huffs out, exhausted. “No.”

Craig grunts in frustration, and Mickey's happy enough to just shove him out at this point, even if he was a friend of theirs. “Come on, Ian, just for a stroll. It'd be good to get out, get some fresh air. You know, clearing your head?”

Again, Ian shakes his head, turning away. Mickey stands in front of him, hovering his hand in front of his face, yearning in hunger just to touch him. “No, I can't do it Craig. I just can't.”

Craig places the boxes down, walking over he tugs Ian around, “Ian, you're not the one that fucking died, you can't just stay stuck like this!”

Ian tugs his arm out of the hold, face screwing up, he raises his hand and slaps Craig across the face, burning up. It struck home. He was stuck, he couldn't just go out like Mickey was never there, he couldn't just pretend that his life was ripped away from him. Craig stumbles back, palming his face.

“Just leave Craig.” Mickey says, remembering that neither of them could hear him anymore.

Ian rushes over, apologetic. “Shit, I'm sorry.” Mickey rolls his eyes at Ian's kindness, forgetting that he'd never really experience that ever again. Ian rubs his eyes, sleepily, whining a little. “Fine, just a short walk, but that's it.”

“Thata boy.” Craig smiles, squeezing the top of Ian's shoulders, picking the boxes back up.

Before Mickey could realise, Ian was grabbing his coat and exiting in the loft. He jumps to Ian's side, trying to plead him to stay. “Gallagher, wait the fuck up, just fucking wait.” The door slams up in his face, leaving Mickey locked inside. Frightened and desperate, he rushes for the door knob, but his hand sinks through it.

There's a strange sound, like electrical static, as it penetrates the metal and wood. In shock, he yanks his hand back, remembering what the old guy had said. _Doors aren't as bad as you think._ Maybe this was what he was talking about, maybe he could do this. Circling the space several times, he returns to the door, with grit in his teeth.

“Just fucking do it you pussy.” He spits at himself, reaching out again. As his hands pushes up against it, there's a subtle resistance. The hairs on the back of his hand vibrate as his ghostly form presses into it. When his arm disappears through the door, his eyes widen in fear, it felt weird, it felt alien. It was horrible, like it was treading through mud. The grating electrical sound shudders up his spine. “Shit.”

This time, he does it again, the sight of his amputated limb is unsettling but he doesn't pull away. He could do this. Slowly, he edges in and presses his face into the molecules of the wood. The atoms and electrons spin past him at frightening speed, the chips of wood moving as he sinks through. It's as if the universe was in total chaos, the sound of charge running through his body, half of his chest pushing through the door.

“Oh fuck this.” Mickey calls out, giving up. He pulls back, his body slightly trembling, and resists the urge to do it again.

***

Mickey finds himself sitting in the corner, fingers twitching for a cigarette or a bottle of jacks. He waits for Ian to get back, waits to try again to help Ian discover his presence. Alone, he sings to himself, like a lullaby parents would sing to their children, “... _Bye bye, Miss American Pie. Drove my Chevy to the levy, but the levy was dry..”_ he feels himself shudder, eyes brimming with tears. “... _Them good ol' boys were drinking whiskey and rye, and singing this'll be the day that I...”_

He stops, realising the last word of the song. Shit. “Fuck you, you fucking fuck.” He screams out into the loft. Instead of singing, he looks around the loft, looking at pictures, Ian's sculptures, the chair that Ian hated so much, it was all them.

Knocking him out of his thoughts, there's a sound coming at the door. His eyes shoot up, expecting Ian to barge though, the door opens slowly, as if the person didn't really belong there. “Definitely not Ian.” He confirms, already knowing that if it was Ian the door would of swung open.

Walking over to the door, his face begins to tighten. Something is wrong, the person smelt different, like cheap coke and bottles of beer. When he sees who it is, his chest fills with fury, “Son of a fucking bitch.”

The mugger, the man who killed him, is entering the loft, key in his hand. Mickey clenches his fists, gritting his teeth. The scruff walks through, quietly, locking the door closed.

 


End file.
